These were the bare facts. Harber gave a good many more than he got, he told me, upon the theory that nothing so provoked confidence as giving it. He was a little mad himself that night, he admits, or else very, very sane. As you will about that. But, from the moment she began to talk, the thought started running through his head that there was fate in this meeting. There was a sort of passionate fineness about her that caught and answered some instinct in Harber ... and I'm afraid they talked more warmly than the length of their acquaintance justified, that they made one another half-promises, not definite, perhaps, but implied; promises that.... "I _must_ go in," she said at last, reluctantly. He knew that she must, and he made no attempt to gainsay her. "You are going to America," she went on. "If you should----" And just at that moment, Harber says, anything seemed possible to him, and he said eagerly: "Yes--if you will--I should like----" How well they understood one another is evident from that. Neither had said it definitely, but each knew. "Have you a piece of paper?" she asked. Harber produced a pencil, and groped for something to write upon. All that his pockets yielded was a sealed envelope. He gave it to her. She looked at it closely, and saw in the brilliant moonshine that it was sealed and stamped and addressed. "I'll spoil it for mailing," she said. "It doesn't matter," Harber told her ineptly. "Or you can write it lightly, and I'll erase it later." There was a little silence. Then suddenly she laughed softly, and there was a tiny catch in the voice. "So that you can forget?" she said bravely. "No! I'll write it fast and hard ... so that you can ... never ... forget!" And she gave him first his pencil and envelope, and afterward her hand, which Harber held for a moment that seemed like an eternity and then let go. She went into the house, but Harber didn't follow her. He went off to his so-called hotel. In his room, by the light of the kerosene-lamp, he took out the envelope and reed what she had written. It was: Vanessa Simola, Claridon, Michigan. He turned over the envelope and looked at the address on the other side, in his own handwriting: Miss Janet Spencer, Tawnleytown.... And the envelope dropped from his nerveless fingers to the table. Who shall say how love goes or comes? Its ways are a sacred, insoluble mystery, no less. But it had gone for Harber: and just as surely, though so suddenly, had it come! Yes, life had bitterly tricked him at last. She had sent him this girl ... too late! The letter in the envelope was written to tell Janet Spencer that within six weeks he would be in Tawnleytown to claim her in marriage. One must be single-minded like Harber to appreciate his terrible distress of mind. The facile infidelity of your ordinary mortal wasn't for Harber. No, he had sterner stuff in him.